


and i don't say

by endquestionmark



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 00:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6217051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If I’m lending you out, I may as well let you know what you’re in for, right?” Jack laughs. “Just kidding! I know you’ll do fine, kiddo. It’s what you do best.” He crosses the room and lays his hand on Rhys’ shoulder, leaning over the back of the sofa until he’s holding Rhys by the nape of his neck. “Anyway, it’s not like you’re on your own.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i don't say

**Author's Note:**

> Any Hyperion programmer making his accelerated way up the corporate ladder via blackmail and strategic murder needs some sort of pretty young thing to act as bait. Accordingly, content notes which should serve as both your summary and your warning: consent issues of multiple varieties, uncomfortably sexual cybernetics, complimentary dehumanization, and the usual array of domination, power dynamics, and excitingly unhealthy headspaces.
> 
> Credit where it is due to [Mari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung) for this specific grievance.

Jack doesn’t like to hold meetings in his office: particularly this type of meeting, just him and Rhys, early in the evening when the executives are just starting to call it a night and everyone else is just getting started. His office isn’t big enough for much anyway; talent only goes so far on Helios, and it definitely isn’t proportional to square footage. After a certain point actual ability becomes secondary to ambition and connections and sheer arrogant entitlement. Jack’s far too smart to show his hand like that, at least before he’s absolutely certain of what the table stakes are, so instead of an office he has a closet with pretensions and a few extra inches of elbow room. Instead of making do, Jack uses his quarters when he really needs to close a deal or impress a client or get work done, which means that Rhys is left to sit on the sofa — stolen from one of the presentation rooms, probably, like the low table in front of it and the projector bolted haphazardly to the ceiling — and look at nothing in particular as Jack goes through papers, back turned and muttering to himself.

It’s a nice room, anyway, for a presentation or a pitch — just impersonal enough to seem professional, but not entirely devoid of interest — and entirely constructed, from the carpet to the artificial foliage on the windowsill, for that purpose. Rhys wonders if the rest of Jack’s quarters are like this, or if they contain all the ordinary chaos of day-to-day subsistence, the crumpled papers and discarded clothes and other detritus that provide proof of life. He can’t tell, sometimes, how much of Jack is ambition, and how much is original: sometimes Rhys wonders if Jack knows himself, or if he’s discarded the original in favor of forward momentum, establishing himself in retrospect as it suits him. “Can I help?” he says, instead, and does his best not to flinch back when Jack wheels around.

“Nah,” Jack says, and presses at the bridge of his nose. “Long day, I’ll be fine. Let me just find out who this guy is, what he wants, you know? Give you the full rundown. I mean, if I’m lending you out, I may as well let you know what you’re in for, right?” He laughs. “Just kidding! I know you’ll do fine, kiddo. It’s not like you’re on your own.” Jack crosses the room and lays his hand on Rhys’ shoulder, leaning over the back of the sofa until he’s holding Rhys by the nape of his neck. “Anyway, it’s not like you’re on your own.”

“Sure,” Rhys says. “What does he want? The usual? Personal assistant, overtime, whatever?” He can’t see Jack’s face, not if he doesn’t want to twist away from Jack’s grip, so he has to guess at Jack’s reaction. “I can do that. Easy.” He shrugs. “Must be a Monday.”

“Sure,” Jack says. “Monday.”

Rhys shrugs again. “Executives,” he says. “You know how they are. Meet one, you know how it goes. Oh, you’re such a big shot, I’m so sorry to take up your time, I know you probably have much more important things to do, but I thought I’d give it a shot anyway, that sort of thing.” Jack is still quiet, so Rhys stumbles to a halt. “Easy.”

“Easy,” Jack says, voice dangerously quiet, and his grip tightens on Rhys’ shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Am I boring you? Wasting your time, huh? Getting too used to this, cupcake?” Rhys fights the urge to hunch over, to make himself small at the warning note in Jack’s voice. “Don’t worry,” Jack goes on. “I can fix that. Make things a little more exciting, how about that.” He lets Rhys go, and Rhys leans back, watches Jack pull a chip out of his pocket. “What about it, kid? Make me proud.”

“What is it?” Rhys says. He’s going to say yes, no matter what, and they both know it, but he has to do this — has to ask, has to let Jack persuade him, has to pretend that he’s actually considering it — every time. If he doesn’t, then there’s no point, and Rhys may as well admit that Jack has him in the palm of his hand; if Rhys doesn’t, then Jack might lose interest, and let him go.

“Oh, you know,” Jack says, vaguely. “Just a side project, one of those things. Think of an idea, see if you can do it, turns out you can, there you go. A little minor subsystems control, remote access, all that good stuff. Nothing you haven’t seen before.” He offers Rhys the chip between his first and second fingers, like a cigarette, and snatches it back when Rhys reaches for it. “You sure?”

“Come on,” Rhys says. “You know what I’m going to say.”

“Sure,” Jack says, grinning. “Doesn’t hurt to hear it one more time.”

“Yes,” Rhys says, “I’m sure. Give me that, come on.”

Jack shakes his head, still grinning. “Nah,” he says, and tilts Rhys’ head up, thumb under his chin, fingers under his jaw, holding Rhys in place and tipping his face to the side. Jack brushes Rhys’ hair back and taps at the edge of his temple port with his thumbnail. It resonates straight through Rhys, the jarring impact of a compressed nerve or the momentary discomfort of a cracked joint. He wants to shake the sensation off, shift in his seat until it fades, but Jack taps at his port again, closer to the embedded pins and the compatibility contacts, and it jars Rhys all over again, makes it impossible for him to focus or get comfortable. Jack presses the pad of his thumb over the port, just hard enough that Rhys can feel it, becoming aware all over again that it isn’t actually organic.

It’s an odd feeling, and a strange boundary. Usually, Rhys doesn’t think about it, has difficulty remembering a time before Jack picked him out of the intern pool and gave him real responsibilities and real challenges and real rewards — increased clearance, for a start — and when Rhys had proven himself worthy, Jack had made him better as well, a piece at a time. On the one hand, it’s an unsettling reminder; on the other hand, Rhys takes a small perverse delight in it. Rhys likes it when Jack looks at him as if he’s different, and he likes it when people recognize him in the hallways, and he likes being reminded that he isn’t the same nervous applicant who fumbled his way through an interview. He likes being reminded that, now, he isn’t quite human. Rhys likes being reminded that he’s better now, and Jack never makes him feel bad about it. Jack always makes him feel special. “Let me,” Jack says, and Rhys barely nods. Jack traces the edge of the port, the dual edge of scar tissue and metal, and smiles as if he approves. “You’re going to love this,” he says, and slides the chip into place.

At first, it doesn’t feel like much of anything — the vague magnetic engagement of the pins — and then, for a brief terrifying moment, Rhys feels as if he’s been cut loose, left floating in his own body, just a half-degree out of place and yet unmoored entirely. Like the first few seconds in zero gravity, that vague sense that something is different, the slow-dawning realization of something taken for granted all along: not wrong, quite, but different and new and impossible to process in that first flush of disorientation. Rhys feels as if all his joints are just an inch out of place, so that he’ll have to learn to move all over again, slow and deliberate and careful.

He blinks, and the moment passes. “So,” Jack says. “Yes? No? I’m a genius? Just kidding. I know I’m a genius.”

Rhys ignores him, cautiously flexing his fingers — metal and organic — and shifting a little to see if the sensation persists. It’s just more of the same, anyway, Jack building an empty space with words and style and letting it cover for the dissonance of his actual substance, the craft and calculation under the conceit. As far as Rhys can tell, everything is back to normal, his nerves and muscles responding as they should; it’s hard to shake, though, the reminder that his body is not entirely his own anymore. It isn’t quite the same feeling as when Rhys occasionally catches Jack looking speculatively at his exposed shoulder joint, or when Jack holds Rhys still so that he can get a closer look at his ocular overlay, leans over to catch a glint of artificial eyeshine. Rhys isn’t sure if he likes this or not: being inspected is one thing, but being overridden is another.

If this is what it takes to make him better, maybe that’s all right, though.

“Did it work?” Rhys says, and Jack — still holding him by the jaw, still leaning over the back of the sofa — leans in and taps at the end of the chip to see Rhys twitch, as much a matter of electrical reflex as it is a conscious response. His vision swims for a moment, goes burned-out at the edges, and Rhys can feel the shifting apparatus in his eye, the automatic expansion of the implanted aperture and the way that his body responds, an antagonistic interaction of muscle and mechanism. It hurts, the familiar ache of overwhelmed tissue against impersonal resistance, but he holds still until Jack lets him go, satisfied with whatever he sees.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Looks good, kid. Looks real good.” He pats the side of Rhys’ face and straightens up. “You look like you’ve gone five rounds with the good stuff and lost. Angle works, too. Make sure you look up at him, huh? Show off those big blown eyes and you’re halfway there.”

“Sure,” Rhys says. He feels a little dreamy, a little out-of-body still, between the contact and the praise and whatever it is that’s on the chip, and Jack laughs.

“Look at that,” he says. “Man. That was so worth the all-nighter.” Jack taps the end of the chip one last time, disengaging the pins, and slides it free, pressing his thumb to Rhys’ port again. “How’s that?”

“Good,” Rhys says, and tries to scrape together a little more coherence. “It’s fine. Right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack says. “You’re all set. Gorgeous, kid. He’s going to be all over you.” He tosses the chip across the room, onto the desk. “Well?” he says, and crosses his arms. “The usual, right?” Jack grins. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, huh? Or, hey, no. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t tell you to, how’s that. Much better.”

All the way down the hallway, Rhys feels as if he’s still only half-present, a strange overlay to everything that he sees and feels and does — no lag, nothing like the disorientation of adjusting to his cybernetics for the first time, just a strange awareness of how he occupies and moves through space — a deliberation that makes him feel that much less real, and that much more present. Up a flight of stairs, and he knows the unlock code, so he lets himself into the executive’s office and waits.

The nameplate has been removed from the desk, and Rhys tries not to remember that kind of detail anyway, just in case. It’s not as if he has much deniability, if this all goes sideways, but he tries not to keep track of faces or names or office numbers. If Jack ever gets bored of playing this game, or lets his guard down long enough for someone else to get ahead, Rhys won’t be able to plead ignorance, but as long as they’re playing, he may as well enjoy himself. Not keeping track of names or faces is, in and of itself, something that Rhys likes: the anonymity and availability; the way he goes and does what he’s told and feels, afterwards, used; the way he’s just another pretty young thing who’ll do anything for a promotion, desperate to please and so, so easy.

He waits by the door to find out who he needs to be tonight.

“Sit down,” the man says, not looking up from his desk, and Rhys thinks: an overt power play. It’s obvious, but a helpful start; he wants attention, now, wants to be corrected, wants to find out what he’s done wrong and fix it. It’s good. It’s almost too easy, but then Rhys has always been a little too eager to please and a little too quick to say yes. He sits and waits and fidgets, doesn’t think about how this is all a game, and he wants to do well anyway, so maybe it’s real after all. He just wants to do well for Jack, instead. It’s not that different.

After a while, the man gets up, comes around the desk and leans on it — Jack does that too, likes the extra room that it gives him to pace and gesture and talk, likes being able to look down at Rhys — and Rhys knows what he’s expected to do and say, now. “I’m—” he starts, expecting an interruption, and the man doesn’t disappoint.

“Sure,” he says, holding up his hand. “You’ve always looked up to me, you’d do anything to prove yourself, what a great opportunity, right? Blah blah blah. Well, this is your lucky day, uh. Kid.” It doesn’t sound the same from him. It doesn’t sound as good. It doesn’t matter: Rhys knows what he means, and Rhys knows what it sounds like when Jack says it, and he knows which he prefers.

“Yeah,” Rhys says, looking up, eyes wide, biting his lip. It’s cheap bait, he knows, but Rhys also knows what he looks like when he does this, let alone how he looks now, after whatever Jack’s done. He knows that the man glances at his mouth, and sets his hand on Rhys’ shoulder, thumb tucked just under the collar of his shirt, the barest brush of skin in case Rhys says no. “Anything,” Rhys says, and Jack must love that, must love how lost he sounds already, must be listening from his office and smiling with amusement at Rhys’ expense. It just makes Rhys even more determined.

“So,” the man says, and slides his hand up to the side of Rhys’ neck, thumb over his pulse now, before he presses just barely, tipping Rhys’ head back even further. “Anything?”

“Please,” Rhys says, even though it’s a little early for him to be begging, because this is the most uninteresting part, when he has to pretend that he’s interested, playing a part instead of just taking it. He reaches out for the man’s belt, pausing just short, and waits. “Can I?”

“Shit,” the man says, and grabs Rhys by the wrist, yanks him the rest of the way. “Yeah, kid. At least you aren’t stupid.”

It isn’t boring, precisely, making people believe that he wants them — Rhys isn’t that picky, not when it comes to this sort of thing, not when it comes to Jack telling him who and what and where, so it isn’t much of a lie anyway — but this is always easier. Rhys knows that he’s good at this, looks good with a hand in his hair and his eyes half-closed, and he gasps for the recording. He makes sure that he takes his time, and lets the man smear the head of his cock across Rhys’ lips before he licks it away and hesitates. “Oh, come on,” the man says, and yanks Rhys forward by his hair, gasps when Rhys goes without a fight and chokes a little. It always sounds that much worse if he tries to breathe, so Rhys does, lets it catch in his throat and gasps when he pulls back a little, makes sure that the man can see how his eyes are wet and his mouth is already red and how he’s flushed, equally from deprivation and desperation.

“Sorry,” Rhys gasps, “sorry,” and does it again, lets his throat close and his breathing stutter, clutches at the man’s hips and doesn’t bother to make it anything but filthy, wet and messy and loud. Rhys likes it this way, anyway: likes how it messes him up, likes how Jack looks at him when he comes back like this.

“Fuck,” the man says. “Yeah, you’re good.” He breaks off, groaning, when Rhys looks up at him through his lashes and waits. “Too good,” the man adds, and Rhys thinks for a moment that he knows, that he’s in on it, that this time it’s for real and Jack really is lending him out. He isn’t as surprised as he should be by the idea. It doesn’t change anything, really. Rhys definitely doesn’t think about whether he likes it or not. “Too good to waste,” the man goes on, and drags him up by the throat, rubs his thumb across Rhys’ mouth, looks him in the eye. Rhys can barely focus on him, and he thinks that he can hear Jack laughing, wonders if that was it — some sort of subroutine, Jack had said — and then he realizes: Jack isn’t just watching, doesn’t just have the video feed running in the background on one of his monitors.

“There you go, kid,” Jack says in his ear, and there it is, that’s how it should sound, that’s the tone of voice that makes Rhys a little proud and a little angry and, for the most part, pleased with himself. “Man, you’re slow. I gotta tell you, though, this was absolutely worth it, huh? I mean, look at this—” and Rhys goes warm all over, staggers a little at the sensation and the way it inches down his spine. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be touched, no matter how — hands in his hair, pressure at his throat, teeth set in his lip, whatever he can get — needy and unable to think beyond how badly he craves contact. “—Wow,” Jack says. “I mean, I’m good, but let me tell you. That’s all you, babe. I’m just giving you a little nudge here, you know?”

“Please,” Rhys manages, though it comes out more as a sigh, a desperate exhalation.

“Yeah?” the man says, and pushes Rhys up against his desk, turns him around to fumble at his belt. “God, you’re just gagging for it, aren’t you?”

Any other time, Rhys would laugh — it’s such a bad line, so amateurish and lazy — but it’s true. He’ll put up with any amount of fumbling, any number of bad lines, to be touched. “Please,” he says, again, or maybe gasps. It’s hard to tell.

“Wow,” Jack says, again. “Hey, do you think he’ll — I mean, he’d probably lick your boots if you asked, just look at him, but—” He pauses, and the man pushes up Rhys’ shirt, drags his nails down Rhys’ back and kisses the base of Rhys’ spine messily. “—Never mind!” Jack says. “Oh, yep. Definitely. You’re getting eaten out _good_ ,” he adds, and Rhys can’t help his reaction to that, the way that he tries to hide his face, the way that he jerks back and can’t keep quiet. Part of it is in how Jack says it, how Jack sounds so self-congratulatory, and part of it is in what Jack is saying, how he makes it sound so filthy, but part of it is that there’s still something so dirty about this for Rhys: someone else getting on their knees for him, working him open all wet and slow and messy, making him feel extravagant and expensive and good. Rhys gasps and shakes and, when he can’t take it anymore, drops to his elbows, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, and doesn’t bother to beg. It won’t help now: he may as well save it for when it will.

It doesn’t take long, anyway, after the man gets to his feet — swears, and calls Rhys good, but it doesn’t sound as good when Jack isn’t saying it, tells Rhys how wet he is, just waiting, he’s going to be so good, isn’t he — and teases Rhys, a little, with his fingertips, wants to see how Rhys is so desperate now, barely able to ask for it. Rhys asks, but he doesn’t beg, not until the man pulls him back by the hips, skin flush to skin, and waits, rocking just a little. He doesn’t beg until the man pushes him down by the shoulder, fingers pushing at the uneven seam of skin and metal, presses Rhys’ face into the desk and tells him to ask for that as well, and then Jack sighs. “Sure,” he says. “Go on. You’ve earned it, right? Beg, Rhysie,” he says. “Beg. Real pretty for me, come on.”

Rhys does, every way he knows: pushes back, arches until his shoulders are tight with it, gasps every sort of promise and plea that he knows, and the man grunts, apparently satisfied. “See?” he says. “Not so hard, kid, now come on—” and pushes forward, jarring Rhys into the edge of the desk. He’ll have bruises on his hipbones, the type that ache when he moves, the type that Rhys can press on when he needs a reminder of why he does this: the good kind. “—Come on,” the man says. “Take it. That’s it. Yeah.”

He does: even when he can’t quite stand anymore, between the way that he’s still warm, still so pliable and easy to please, and the accumulated ache of his hips, and the way that his knees haven’t quite given out yet, Rhys does, because Jack asked him to do this, and because he likes it, and because he can go back to Jack after this, having done a good job. He can go back to Jack and know that he’s worth something. He takes it, and when the man tells him to come — calls Rhys _sweetheart_ , calls him pretty, calls him all sorts of pet names that sound better from Jack — Rhys does, bites down on the heel of his hand and doesn’t quite manage to be quiet about it anyway.

“Wow,” the man says, eventually, and pulls out, doesn’t bother to help Rhys up. “You’re something, let me tell you. You’ll go far,” he says, and cleans himself up. “Keep it up, kid.” He doesn’t bother turning to look at Rhys. “Same time next week, huh? I like your initiative. I think we’ll get on just fine.”

Rhys knows a dismissal when he hears one. He puts himself together, as well as he can — doesn’t bother fixing his tie or buttoning his shirt, doesn’t bother to clean himself up — and doesn’t wait for the man to turn around. He shows himself out.

When he gets back to Jack’s office, Jack is waiting. The hallways are dim now, no longer simulating daylight, and so are Jack’s quarters, and Jack is on the sofa, frowning at his tablet. “Hey, kid,” he says, and Rhys relaxes, feels the world falling back into place. “How was that? Sounded pretty damn good to me.”

“Yeah,” Rhys says. “It was pretty easy.”

“Sure,” Jack says, smirking. “Come on, have a seat. Give me a second.”

Rhys sits and waits and doesn’t fidget, this time, even though his shirt is still open and he can feel the slow clotting of the bruises at his hips, the few points of pressure still at his throat, the way that he’s still flushed-warm. He doesn’t shift, doesn’t even move until Jack sets his tablet down and beckons him over, turning to lean on the armrest. “Thanks,” Rhys says. He lets Jack undo his belt and push his shirt off his shoulders and undress him and pull him over. Rhys sprawls awkwardly across him and buries his face in Jack’s shoulder. Jack never lets Rhys touch him afterwards, hadn’t even touched Rhys the first time, when he’d coached Rhys through it — _look up, kid. Yeah, like that. Now, hey, bite your lip. Good_ — but he’ll do this, remind Rhys of who he is and why he matters and who gave him that value to begin with. When Rhys had asked — begged, more, desperate for anything that Jack would give him — Jack had said something about saving him for a special occasion, like a big promotion or a new office. That had made Rhys feel good, too, had made him feel just as valuable an acquisition.

“Sounds like he had a pretty good time, too,” Jack says, and traces the welts on Rhys’ back, assessing the damage. He presses at Rhys’ bruises, indifferent to the way that Rhys shifts, into or away: it doesn’t matter. Jack always knows exactly how to touch Rhys to make him feel like this, impersonal and detached and disinterested, as if Rhys isn’t a person but rather property. It’s a relief, after so long pretending otherwise, for Rhys to drop the act and let Jack take care of him. It’s a relief to know that Jack will treat Rhys however he wants.

“He said I was good,” Rhys says, just to see how Jack will respond, and Jack’s grip tightens at his hips.

“Sure,” Jack says, and he almost sounds pleasant for a minute. “And what did you say?”

“Please,” Rhys says, and Jack pulls him closer, one hand at the small of his back.

“What was that?” Jack says. “Sorry, cupcake, was that an answer?” He traces his fingers up the inside of Rhys’ thigh, traces the line of his hip, slips his fingertips under Rhys’ waistband and pushes, just a little, where Rhys is still slick and open and messy. “Rhysie,” Jack says. “What did you say?”

“Please,” Rhys says, again. “I said _please_ , to you — I said _please let me_ , Jack — to you,” he gasps, and Jack holds him there, doesn’t have to press much harder to make Rhys jerk against him.

“That’s what I thought,” Jack says. “ _Please_ what, huh?” He crooks his fingers, just a little, enough so that Rhys can feel how still he’s holding himself, and how badly he wants more.

“Please tell me,” Rhys starts, and Jack presses a little harder, enough so that Rhys can feel how wet he still is, how it’s getting everywhere, and how easy it is for Jack to just fuck into him like this, knuckle-deep and Rhys still wants more. “Tell me what to do—” Rhys says, desperate, and adds: “—Please. Anything,” he says, and Jack smiles.

“There you go,” Jack says. “You got there.” He lets Rhys move, then, lets Rhys clutch at his shoulders and gasp into his throat and fuck himself on Jack’s fingers, doesn’t say anything until Rhys is so close that he’s shaking. “Not bad,” he says, then, one hand on Rhys’ hip to steady him. “Not bad at all.” Rhys shudders, and thinks: Jack knows him, and so Jack owns him. Jack knows how to make him beg, and how to break him, if it comes to that, but Jack knows what to say to make Rhys feel good — Jack knows what Rhys wants, and what he needs, and which one matters more at any given moment — and for the most part Rhys doesn’t, and wouldn’t ask even if he did. With Jack, he never has to think about it. With Jack, he never has to ask.

“Hey,” Jack says. “You listening to me? Hey. Yeah, you.” He grins. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Rhys gasps, arching back. “Yeah,” Jack says. “That’s what I’m talking about. Ambitious idiots are a dime a dozen, kid, but you’re the real deal. Talk about weapons-grade,” Jack says, “you’re better than anything on the market,” and Rhys presses his face into Jack’s shoulder and comes, doesn’t think of anyone or anyplace else, feels the weight of Jack’s words like a hollowpoint to the chest, damage so extensive that he can’t even tell if he’ll live yet.

Jack doesn’t stop until Rhys shoves his hand away, too sensitive to care about whether Jack will find some advantage in this, find some new way to render him helpless. It doesn’t matter; Jack will find it anyway. It’s only a matter of time. Instead, Jack laughs, and slides his hand up over Rhys’ ribs, shifts to tap at Rhys’ shoulder joint, down to his elbow and then up to trace his cheekbone, the lower curve of his eye socket, the edge of his temple port. “You were right,” Rhys says, drowsy. “That was good.”

“What?” Jack says. “Oh, this?” He taps at the port and shrugs. “Yeah, I guess I should give you the uninstall chip. Seriously, what did I say? Definitely worth it. Nothing without the hardware, though, right?” He scratches lightly at the nape of Rhys’ neck.

“It’s okay,” Rhys says. “I don’t mind.”

Jack looks at him for a second, surprised, and then laughs. “Man,” he says. “You really are something else, kid.”

That sounds better coming from him, too.

“Anything,” Rhys says, already drifting off, and Jack smiles against his temple, metal and scar tissue and skin. He means it, too. He’ll be whatever it takes to matter — to get somewhere, to make all this worth it — to Jack.

“That’s my Rhys,” Jack says, low and pleased and proud. “My right hand man.” He laughs again. “You’re my favorite dragon. If I didn’t have you, I’d have to make one from scratch. Talk about all-nighters.”

Rhys nods, or thinks he does. “Anything,” he says again, just in case it matters — just in case Jack doesn’t know, in case Jack doesn’t own this as well — in case there’s some small way in which Rhys still belongs to himself.

“I know,” Jack says. His hand is still on the nape of Rhys’ neck, and Rhys doesn’t need to ask if Jack understands. He knows. That’s close enough.


End file.
